


Names I've given

by nashirah



Series: words we missed [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, a little bit of angst but generally fluff, post possession!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1224730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nashirah/pseuds/nashirah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles spends too much time at the police station, trying to guess the new deputy's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Names I've given

**Author's Note:**

> I HAVE FALLEN INTO THIS DEEP GREEN OCEAN CALLED DEPUTY PARRISH'S EYES AND I CAN'T GET UP.
> 
> I mean. Everything is spiraling out of control on my blog and this fic is the effect of that madness. THere might be demand for Deputy Parrish/Derek now and what is even my life for considering it? Because I am. Considering it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> (if you want to join all the obnoxious Prince Deputy fangirling, I'm on tumblr @ [lonewolfed](http://lonewolfed.tumblr.com))

“Steve.”

Parrish raises one eyebrow, not looking up from his work.

“I bet your name is Steve. There’s a very patriotic ring to your whole existence.”

He smiles, listening to Stiles listing a whole bunch of names that supposedly fit him. He’s been here for good half an hour, looking for his dad. When Parrish told him the Sheriff is out, he flopped on one of the chairs lined against the wall and after a few minutes of silence, he started amusing himself by trying to engage everyone around him - and that included Parrish - in a conversation that soon evolved to a guessing game.

“Why don’t you check my file or hack into our database?” Parrish interrupts when Stiles considers just calling him _Prince_. Jesus. “Aren’t you good at that?”

He chances a look at Stiles then, a bit slumped in his chair. He shrugs and waves a dismissive hand at him.

“I was. I am. Believe me, I would, but I was a little busy lately,” he says and Parrish nods, going back to his reports. There’s no point in bringing back what’s in the past, especially not what happened in the past few weeks. And Stiles has been spending an awful lot of time in the Sheriff’s office after that. “So. Not Steve. Not Prince? Alright, just checking, don’t give me that unimpressed eyebrow.”

“Stop harassing my deputies,” the Sheriff says, appearing in front of Parrish’s desk. Parrish looks up, but sheriff’s eyes don’t leave his son’s face as he asks, “Everything okay, deputy Parrish?”

“Yes, sir,” he answers dutifully.

Stiles disappears in his father’s office and that’s that.

*  
“I still haven’t learned your name,” Stiles says in lieu of a greeting around noon one Saturday. He’s holding two plastic bags in both his hands and a bottle under one arm, determination set deep in his features.

Parrish smiles and puts down the pencil he’s been unconsciously twirling in his hand until Stiles approached his desk.

“I only give my name to my dates. To everyone else I’m deputy Parrish,” he bares his teeth a little and enjoys the way Stiles’ mouth twitches before he huffs in mock irritation.

“Don’t think this is over, _deputy_ ,” he says, shouldering the door to the Sheriff’s office. “Your soy burgers are here, o’ father of mine!”

The Sheriff groans loudly and Parrish smiles even wider.

*  
Deputy Parrish likes his job. He doesn’t find manning the desk a tedious task, nor does he think filing reports is completely useless. It’s not like he’s starved for action, to be in the field. But the more frequent Stiles’ visits get, the more boring everything seems when he’s not there. Thankfully so, he’s at the station practically every day, driven by what seems to be his quest to keep his dad away from red meat. He still hasn’t given up on Parrish’s name, too. Parrish doesn’t exactly mind. The names get more and more ridiculous.

“Clark.”

“Out of Marvel characters?”

“What, you not a fan of DC?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Stiles takes it as a cue to launch into a long monologue (discussion, to be honest; it’s a slow day and Parrish is only pretending to be busy, so he ends up contributing to the whole conversation a whole lot more than usual) about comic villains and their portrayal and it takes him fifteen minutes to remember that he’s off-topic.

“No, you won’t distract me with your secret geek knowledge, deputy Mystery. Today is the day, I can feel it deep in my bones,” he says, pointing a finger at Parrish.

“What is _your_ name, Stiles? Because Stiles can’t be possibly your real name?”

“I asked you first. I’m not telling you until you tell me.”

“It’s only fair, you’ve been unhealthily interested in my name for what, almost a month now?”

Stiles stares at him and Parrish knows he must have said something wrong, because his features change, draw together and he looks more exhausted that he’s seen him in weeks.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I just get intense about things, fixated on, I’m sorry. I will stop, I swear, I’m so-”

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” Parrish says quickly and Stiles drops his hand from where he was rubbing it all over his face. “I don’t mind.”

“You don’t?”

“I really don’t.”

Stiles smiles then, a shy smile that suddenly turns into something more dangerous.

“Good. Because I’m not done.”

Parrish takes it for what it is. A promise, not a threat.

*

It’s not a surprise when Stiles strides in one day and zeroes in on a box of donuts lying on Parrish’s desk.

“What is this absolute beauty?” he asks. “And yeah, I mean the donuts, but I might have also meant you, deputy.”

Parrish snorts and says thank you.

“They’re from Jared. He’s been bringing those over every week, ever since the incident,” he adds. Jared is a nice kid; the first time the donuts happened Parrish tried to explain how donuts are just a very mean stereotype about police, but when the kid stuttered through his apologies he accepted them with a smile. And told him that it was unnecessary, because he was only doing his job, and besides, the bomb was fake, wasn’t it? Thank god it was.

But Jared never stopped bringing the donuts and it kind of became a weekly thing the whole station waiting for it. A good thing, too, because they were sugar-coma inducing monstrosities.

“How come I’ve never seen those?”

“They usually get devoured before you get here,” Parrish replies easily, slapping Stiles’ hand away. He looks wounded for a second, but Parrish just rolls his eyes and nods toward the kitchenette at the back of the station. “Get a napkin, then you can eat.”

“Dixon. Your name must be Dixon,” Stiles throws over his shoulder as he heads to the kitchenette, retrieving a whole handful of napkins. “Because it has a dick in it.”

“If you’re implying that I have a dick, then yes, I do, Stiles.”

“Officer of the law talking about dicks with the sheriff’s underage son,” Stiles sing-songs, momentarily distracted as he shoves half the donut into his mouth. He _moans_ around it.

“Oh, fuck, I wanted to say something witty about how inappropriately indecent our conversation is but I changed my mind, this donut is indecent. You got more?”

Parrish offers him the last one and excuses himself to the bathroom, because it wasn’t the donut that was indecent just a few seconds ago.

*

He’s pulling a double shift because they’re still understaffed. And even though the Sheriff spends more time than not at the station these days, it was still hard to convince him to go home and rest. Parrish knows it’s not because he thinks his deputy is incapable, he probably hasn’t thought that for a long time now, it’s just that a lot of shit happens in Beacon Hills and Parrish gets it. He does, he transferred here expecting small town dullness encompass him like a security blanket. Instead there were bombs and mutilated bodies and that hit a little too close to home.

It’s a little after 2am when Stiles appears out of nowhere, like a shadow. It’s a reflex, but Parrish’s hand finds his gun before he relaxes, seeing Stiles’ tired face, his hair in disarray. 

“What are you doing here?”

Stiles just shrugs, doesn’t reply until he’s seated in the chair opposite Parrish’s desk.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Isn’t your dad home?”

“Yeah, he is. Didn’t want to bother him though.”

It’s the first time Stiles doesn’t seem to want to talk, so Parrish just hands him a stack of documents and a stapler. For the longest while, the only sounds accompanying them are the sounds of Stiles stapling the paper and Parrish’s quiet typing.

“Sometimes I don’t know if I’m awake or not,” Stiles says suddenly, his voice blank. “Sometimes I know I’m not, and then I dream of this vast, dark void,” he spits the last word like it’s an insult and maybe it is, “and sometimes it grows larger and larger and it takes everything and everyone and I can only watch because _I am_ the void. So sometimes I just _not sleep_.”

He’s unconsciously hugging the stapler, curling in on himself, his eyes hollow but alive. He looks like he’s waiting for Parrish to say something judgmental, to ask him how long has this been going on, to send him back home maybe, jaw set and teeth clenched.

But Parrish doesn’t say anything about how sleep deprived he looks, how his father must have noticed that he’s gone and they should probably call him, how he’s trying to hide his invisible scars but everyone can see them.

Instead he tells him about that one sunny day and that one wrong step and those hopes shattered. He tells him about his best friend who thought they had the world set out before them and the army issued boots crunching in the sand as he stepped on a mine and the clicking sound haunting his dreams ever since.

And Parrish may not know what’s going on in that kid’s head but Stiles looks at him like he understands, and isn’t _that_ the worst?

He texts the Sheriff just in case.

Silence stretches between them, but Parrish doesn’t feel like he felt a thousand times before when he had to share his story with people he knew and didn’t know. The sounds of Stiles stapling the documents seem less angry somehow, but it’s almost three am now, maybe he’s just tired.

Or hungry, judging by the loud rumbling sound Stiles’ stomach decides on.

“You feel like curly fries tonight?” Parrish asks, feels his lips twitch. Stiles replies with a matching grin as he scrambles to his feet, stapler in hand.

“Are you kidding me? I _always_ feel like curly fries.”

*

The diner is mostly empty, sans an odd patron here or there, nursing their beers and greasy omelets. 

Stiles orders a truly amazing amount of food and Parrish wants to pay for himself, but Stiles stops him with a hand on his wrist.

“Dude, I know how much your paycheck is. I can pay for it.”

“You’re a high school student.”

“So? Doesn’t make you any less poor.”

Parrish doesn’t protest, his paycheck _is_ kinda shitty compared to what he could be getting if he stayed in the army.

They busy themselves with their orders - two cheesy mountains of fries with burgers added as an afterthought.

“Kyle.”

“Huh?”

“My name is Kyle.”

“I know,” Stiles says, smiling sheepishly above his burger.

Parrish is a little taken aback by that.

“You knew this whole time?”

“Yeah, I checked your profile as soon as I knew you were transferring to work under my dad. Uh. Sorry about that?”

He doesn’t seem sorry.

“So, _Kyle_ ,” he says cheerfully, stealing a fry from Parrish’s plate. “Does that mean we’re on a date?”

Kyle grins back at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Deputy's name, Kyle, wasn't confirmed but is the most popular choice for him from what I've seen so far. As soon as the canon gets its head out of its ass and stops teasing us with mysterious names I will probably correct my assumption (I like Kyle tho, Teen Wolf I'm glaring at you).


End file.
